OIBT  OIP 

Dorothy  Sheldon  Scott 


J{  WORfiD  f\J  OWN 


DEDICATED  TO 

The  friends  who  love  me, 
The  friends  I  know  are  true, 

The  heaven  that  shines  above  me, 
And  waits  my  spirit  too." 


BY  THE  AUTHOR, 

AUGUSTA     KAUTZ 


PRESS    OF 

H.  S.  CROCKER  COMPANY, 

SAN    FRANCISCO. 


GIFT 


"When  the  world  is  dark  and  cold  in  seeming, 
And  friends  1   love  have  changed  or  flown, 
I  wander  away  in  spirit,  dreaming 

Of  light  and  beauty  in  a  world  my  own." 

tAnon . 


INDEX. 


PAGE 

"We  Musicians  Know." 5 

Ethereal  Messengers 6 

Irresponsive 7 

Midnight  on  the  Prairie 8 

Unity 9 

A  Prairie  Scene I0 

My  Soul I2 

I  Wonder I3 

The  Seeking  Soul I4 

Air  Castles I5 

Easter  Morning Z6 

My  Last  Request T6 

The  Soul I7 

Life's  Problem jg 

The  White  Lily  by  Moonlight Ig 

The  Spiritually  Learned 20 

Soul  Tethered  to  the  Body 21 

Unsatisfied 22 

Somehow 23 

Too  Late 24 

Life's  Song      2^ 

October 26 

The  First  Frost  of  Autumn <?7 

The  Rivals 28 

"Night  Bringeth  All  Things  Home." 28 

Farewell,  Darling 2Q 

Inconstancy I 


PAGE 

The  Mountain  Storm 32 

After  Many  Years  .    .    ,  • 33 

Beauty 34 

Sunset  in  the  Mountains 35 

The  Mountain's  Midnight  Gloom 36 

I  Love  Thee,  Mountains! 38 

Archer 38 

San  Diego 39 

Good-night 41 

Lake  Ontario 42 

My  Dream 43 

Hades 44 

Nature's  At-one-ment 45 

Youth 46 

Night 47 

Dawn 47 

Time's  Tillage  of  the  Heart 48 

Fancied   Bondage 50 

Midnight 50 

Thy  Will  Be  Done 51 

My  Own  Shall    Come   to  Me 52 

I  Want  to  Know 53 

Is  Nature  Depraved 54 

Each  Wants  Its  Own 54 

Delayed  Spring 55 

My  Little  Book 56 


We  Musicians 


f  (  T  A  7  X-N        7\A^-i-r/^i-^M4-^-^-,x-xx-si       ~\  jF  ^^  ~.  T  .  \  ) ) 

'Browning. 


poet,  who  with  mortal  eyes 

Sees  past  cerulean  distance, 
Would  bring  to  earth   those  bending  skies 

To  brighten  earth  existence  ; 
But  fails  to  snare  the  soul's  lost  words, 

And,  lacking  that  assistance, 
His  speech,   for  songs  of  skyey  birds, 

Derides  by  its  resistance. 


Ethereal   Messengers, 


,  hush  !     Do  not  say  that  to  beautify  thought 

I  seek,  in  my  poor  little  rhymes  ; 
True  thought  is  the  soul  of  the  universe,  wrought 

Too  subtile  for  my  jangling  chimes; 
But  out  from  its  bounty  holy  whispers  are  kept 

Afloat,  like  sweet  incense  away  ;  — 
And  I  only  seek  to  their  route  intercept, 

To  rehearse  what  the  messengers  say. 

So  subtile  their  meanings,  my  gross  finite  sense 

Can  never  quite  understand. 
Heaven's  wayfaring  guests,  they  are  journeying  whence 

Some  song-loving  poet  shall  stand, 
Rehearsing  in  song  those  strains  of  the  skies, 

Which  never  shall  echo  again  ; 
For  songs  so  intense  but  echo  in  cries 

The  throes  of  a  sanctified  pain. 


Irresponsive. 


"Y/OU  say  I  shall  sing  you  a  word-song, 

A  melody,   to   impart 
The  joyous  thrill  of  a  bird-song 

To  a  sobbing,  broken  heart. 
I  have  listened  to  the  birds  and  the  breezes, 

My  pen  at  my  ringer  tips ; 
Not  a  chord  in  all  their  music 

Will  spring  to  my  pen  or  my  lips. 

Then  how  can  I  tune  my  dumb  lyre 

To  sounds  I  myself  do  not  know? 
Once  my  heart  sang  the  songs  you  desire, 

But  that  was  a  long  time  ago. 
There  never  was  song  worth  the  singing, 

But  rang  from  a  soul's  overflow  ; 
But  what  sets  the  measures  a-ringing, 

No  one  shall  ever  know. 


Who  plead  our  Father  still  to  bless 
The  midnight  prairie  wilderness. 


Midr|igb,t  or)  trie  Prairie 

WRITTEN  IN  1869. 
* 

5r"PIS  midnight  on  the  prairie. 
Methinks  if  I  had  angel  wings, 

To  soar  to  yonder  star, 
The  silence  there  would  be  less  still 

Than  midnights  on  the  prairies  are. 

Above,   around,   is  solitude, 

Fresh  from  the  Maker's  hand, — 
Repose  as  pure  as  Paradise 

Ere  sin  was  in  the  land. 
The  dew-tears  on  that  bud  are  pure, 

Not  wept  o'er  sin  or  shame  ; 
Those  flowers  hide  no  cruel  grave, 

For  here  death  never  came. 

The  moonlight  falls  with  reverence  there, 

As  if  'twere  holy  shrine; 
The  hush  is  like  the  hush  of  prayer 

Of  angel's  evening  time. 


The  starlight  shimmers  on  the  scene, 
Where  hallowed,  voiceless  air, 

So  dreamy,  peaceful  and  serene, 
Seems  answering  angels'   prayer, 

Who  plead  our  Father  still  to  bless 

The  midnight  prairie  wilderness. 


Uriity. 


tide  of  the  universe  throbs  in  me, 
A  pulsing  current  strong; 

My  great-heart-beats  for  a  higher  life 
Are  timed  with   Nature's  song. 

The  ardor  of  my  upward  strife 
Will  bloom  in  the  vet-to-be. 


A  Prairie  Scerie. 

WRITTEN  IN  1870. 
* 

IN    the  Prairie's  still  hush, 
Where  the  wild-flowers  blush, 

And  stars  watch  the  stillness  so  deep, 
Is  the  grave  of  a  stranger, 
Of  a  brave  Texas  ranger, 

But  no  friend  ever  goes  there  to  weep. 

Perfumed  breezes  caress 

Blooms  no  footstep  shall  press 
On  that  prairie,  the  "  Garden  of  God  ;  " 

For  no  guests  ever  wander 

To  the  grave  over  yonder, 
Where  so  sadly  the  green  grasses  nod. 

There  the  wild-flowers  twine 

A  sepulchral  vine, 
That  nods  to  the  darkness  around  ; 

And  the  night-wind's  low  whisper 

Wakes  but  fairies  to  list  her, 
While  she  sings  a  low  dirge  o'er  the  mound 

10 


Is  it  fancy  makes  seem, 
Like  the  shade  of  a  dream? 
Or  do  serpents'  huge  arms  hug  the  clods  ? 
Or  when  storms  march  to  battle, 
And  the  rains  meet  to  prattle, 

Do  I  hear  mournful  wails  o'er  the  sods? 

-x-  %  *  * 

Oh  !  The  shadows  fall  dark 
On  some  hearth,  where  they  hark 
For  a  step  they  shall  nevermore  hear ! 
Little  think  he  is  sleeping 
Where  the  hushed  hours  are  keeping 

Lonely  vigils  of  grief  all  the  year. 
•x-  *  *  * 

Little  think  the  boatman,  pale, 

Hung  his  oar, — reefed  his  sail,- 
Till  life's  chain  slowly  loosed  captive  bands, 

Freed  a  soul  for  its  Giver, 

To  be  borne  o'er  the  river, 
To  rejoice  in  the  bright  summer  lands. 


My  Soul, 


QH,  Life !     Oh,  Soul  ! 
Invisible  river  !  roll, 
And  seek  unseen,  that  unseen  sea, — 
Immensity! 

Thou  soundless  song! 
Oh,  roll,  dream-voice,  along! 
Thou  note  of  the  Universe!     Of  it  be 
Part  Harmony. 

Oh,  unseen  Giver, 
Unite  this  unseen  river 
To  that  strange,  unseen,  tideless  sea, — 
Eternity! 

Pass  by  earth's  shore, 
Thou  unseen  breeze!     Oh,  soar 
Past  heaven's  verge!     Thy  flight  shall  be 
Infinity. 

Oh,  child  divine, 
Heaven's  grandeur  is  thine, 
To  tread  the  march  of  Time's  rehearse 
Of  the  Universe. 


12 


I  Wonder. 


H 


OW  strangely  hues  of  childhood  mingle 

With  threadbare  cares  of  years,— 
Like  sunbeams  spun  of  sheeny  splendor, 

All  woven  in  with  tears  ; 
Like  silvery  warp  with  woof  of  ashes  ; 

Like  moonbeams  knit  with  clouds  ; 
Night  tangled  tight  with  lightning's  tresses, 

Bright  angels  clothed  in  shrouds. 

Will  this  life  mock  the  life  up  yonder 

By  mingling  with  its  flow  ? 
Or  will  it  be  a  life,  I  wonder, 

Unedged  by  hems  of  woe  ? 
Life's  bitterness  be  quite  forgot,— 

Forgot  its  loves  and  bains? 
Or  memory,  like  immortal  shadows, 

Belink  our  joys  and  pains. 


F 


Has  heaven's  portal  higher  threshold 

Than  reach  our  neighbor's  door? 
Is  heaven  aught  but  u  inner  kingdom 

Within  us," — nothing  more  ? 
If  joys,  and  tears,  and  sins  forgot, 

Then  self's  forgotten,  too, 
Annihilating  us  completely 

As  atheists  could  do. 


Seeding  Soul, 
* 

OR  there  are  times  when  earthy  headlands  high 

Encroach  upon  the  threshold  of  the  sky, 

And  heaven  and  earth  unite  in  holy  place, 

And  spirit  earthy  and  divine  embrace. 

The  crystal  sea  shall  cleanse  earth's  turbid  main, 

If  human  hate  in  arms  of  love  is  slain  ; 

For  love  reborn — our  inner  priesthood  shrives, 

And  earth  and  heaven  mingle  in  our  lives. 


N 


Air  Castles, 


()  life  is  so  meager,  so  sad,  or  so  empty, 

But  o'er  it  some  brightness  has  shone. 
It  has  known  all  the  bliss  of  a  youth's  early  dreaming, 

With  that  magical  beauty, — its  own. 

The  castle  then  built  had  no  airy-like  seeming 
When  we  tripped  through  its  halls,  all  alone, 

And  planned  no  less  bliss  down  life's  arches  was  beaming, 
Than  o'er  all  those  corridors  shone. 

I  love  yet  to  linger  by  its  tumble-down  portal, 

And  rehearse  the  bright  visions  it  hid. 
I  reverence  that  memory  so  bright  and  immortal, 

If  pilgrim  to  shrine  ever  did. 

Though  life  gives  us  more  of  its  nettles  than  roses, 
And  life's  failures  have  brought  so  much  woe, 

Yet  I  think  we  all  find  life's  best  gift  still  reposes 
In  the  old  tumbled-down  long  ago. 


Easter 


T^HAT  power  which  keeps,  through  winter  storms, 

Bright  blossoms  of  blue  and  gold, 
Placed  gems  more  rare,  in  human  forms, 
Kept  safe  'neath  life's  dank  mold. 

Each  violet's  birth  is  no  new  wrought  gift  : 
Its  germ  is  the  Infinite's  thought,  — 

Their  safety  beneath  winter's  downy  drift, 
With  infinite  meaning  fraught. 

Each  soul  has  its  nights,  and  wintery  drifts, 

Its  springtime  it  has  as  well, 
Its  Easter  morn,  when  it  skyward  lifts, 

And  blooms  like  the  asphodel. 


My  Last  Request, 

4 

I  ONLY  ask,  when  life's  last  evening  dips 

Its  lamp  in  the  western  sea, — 
Ere  its  flickering  ray  down  the   darkness  slips,- 
A  light  in  the  East  I  see. 
16 


Trie  SoUl 


AA/HAT  discovers  our  soul  when  in  upward  flight 

We  reach  for  our  heart's  ideal, 
Which  ever  keeps  calling  by  day  and  night, — 

Yet  so  lofty  it  fails  to  reveal 
Its  beautiful  face  to  our  soul  alight 

'Mong  debris  of  the  lowly  real. 
If  by  wearisome  flight,  we  shall  seek  its  height, 

It,  ascending,  escapes  our  zeal, — 
Thus  keeping  our  soul  to  the  arduous  fate 

Of  continuous  upward  eyre, 
Like  a  lone  weary  bird  that  is  seeking  its  mate 

Up  a  mountain's  upward  stair. 

Oh  !  mystery  vaster,  pro  founder  ever, — 

My  ideal,  my  soul,  and  me. 
Life's  meaning  is  truly  a  ceaseless  endeavor 

To  unite  this  triune  three. 


Life's  Problem. 

\A/B  oft  in  life  like  sailors  stand, 

On  deck  in  stormy  seas. 
From  up  on  high,  in  accents  grand, 
A  stranger  voice  is  calling  : 
"Go  search  life's  black  sky's  meaning  out, 

Its  secret  understand  ! 
With  naught  but  seething  waves  about, 
And  far  away  from  land, 

Hear  not  ye  voices  calling  ?  " 

Life's  surges  roll  ;  we  beat  about 

Upon  life's  tumbling  tide. 
We  drift,  and  drift,  and  drifting  out, 

Aloft  rings  out  the  warning  : 
Go  search  !     Nor  linger,  plead,  or  ask  ! 

Interpret  life  yet  more  ! 
'Tis  late  to  learn  life's  cruel  task 
When  cast  upon  its  shore 

On  that  supernal  morning. 


So  oft  does  awe  and  mystery  blend 

Quite  to  life's  bending  edge. 
When  loved  ones  leap,  where  pathways  end, 

Down  depths  of  awful  silence, 
We  call,  and  call.     The  depths  are  dumb  ; 

No  answer  comes  below, 
lyife  has  its  envoy  ;  Death  has  none 
Except  its  awful  silence. 


Trie  Wriite  Lily  by  Moonlight 


H^HOU  sprite  of  the  vale  !     Thou  moonlight's  bride  ! 

In  bridal  robes  of  white. 
Thou  angel  bright,  of  wings  denied, 

Berobed  in  lustrous  light ! 
Thou  white-robed  nun,  so  soulful  sweet, 

Moonbeams  you  glorified  ! 
Or  art  them  spirit,  whose  winding  sheet 

The  grave  has  scintillized  ? 


Spiritually  Learned. 


n^HE  storm  may  shake  the  clouds  in  its  grasp, 

The  welkin's  thunders  roar; 
Still  stars  shine  on  at  their  wonted  task, 
As  calmly  as  heretofore. 

As  stars  shine  on,  though  the  night  be  dark, 
And  gems  'rieath  gowns  of  sands, 

So  the  deathless  soul,  that  living  spark, 
All  darksome  depths  withstands. 

The  clouds  shall  seek  their  ocean  crypt, 
And  splash  in  the  breakers'  brine; 

With  immortal  burnish,  stars  are  tipped, 
And  shall  forever  shine. 

Who  knows  no  sin  his  soul  shall  dim 

Knows  what  soul  treasures  be. 
He  knows  their  sheen  is  God  in  him, — 

And  immortality. 


20 


Soul  Tethered  to  tl^e  Body 


£)OORsoul!  Meek  captive  !   Dost  heed  thy  bitter  fate  ? 
Fast  bound  to  one  lone  comrade,  not  genial  mate, 
One,  coarse  by  nature, — not  fellow,  nor  yet  friend, — 
And  thou,  to  guide  that  wretch,  and  guard  him  to  the  end  ? 
For  long  thy  captor  may  hold  his  captive  bound, 
Thy  counsel  scorned,  thy  low  voice  in  coarse  jest  drowned. 
Poor  soul  !     Held  fast  in  close  embracing  arms  of  clod  ; — 
And  thou,  the  much  loved  child  of  most  High  God  ! 
When  midnight's  hushed  repose  has  curtained  off  the  day, 
And  deathlike  slumber  has  bound  thy  charge  of  clay, 
Then  yearn'st  thou  not  for  Father,  and  for  Father's  home  ? 
Why  shun'st  thou,  then,  the  path  which  spans   the  space- 

ful  gloam  ? 

Thou  child  —  immortal !     Whatever  can  it  be 
So  links  my  mortal  part  with  thy  eternity  ? 


21 


Unsatisfied, 


What  does  it  signify 

That  life  ne'er  rounds  to  full  completeness, 
Nor  joys  attain  an  unmixed  sweetness, 

And  pleasures  ever  flee 

With  strangest  fleetness, 
And  quite  brimful  nothing  ever  seems  to  be  ? 

And  sorrows  multiply. 
Experience  bringing  grief  unending, 
Yet  never  quite  affects  a  mending 

Of  ills  which  fill  life's  day, 

Despite  the  recommending 
That  knowledge  bought  by  years  is  better  every  way. 

Will  nothing  satisfy  ? 
Will  souls,  this  side  of  life's  fulfillment, 
Be  taught  by  tasks  of  life's  instillment, 

And  ever  come  to  know 

The  sweet  enthrillment 
Of  knowing  all  the  meaning  of  our  life's  work  here  below? 


22 


FEEL  to-day  at  life's  edge  I  wait 
For  Death  to  open  the  border  gate. 
I  know  not  why, — I  have  felt  alway, — 
That  I,  not  Death,  would  court  delay. 
I  ne'er  till  now  felt  my  life  work  o'er, 
But  hoped,  somehow,  to  accomplish  more. 
To-day,  in  counting  of  all  I've  wrought, 
On  each  white  page  I  found, — but  naught. 

I  hoped  I'd  heritage  wondrous  fair, 
That  I  was  one  to  earth's  glory  heir. 
I  sought  it  well, — nor  in  lowly  place; 
I  gazed  aloft  for  its  heaven-lit  face; 
I  felt,  somehow,  it  was  pure  and  vast, — 
Though  not  of  earth,  yet  of  earthy  cast, — 

A  gem  not  given  to  deck  my  brow, 
But  one  whose  lustre  would  cheer,  somehow, 
Poor  human  hearts  when  faint  with  woe, 
As  the  sun  bends  backward  its  gorgeous  glow 


Of  ruffly  gilt  to  be-edge  the  night, 

And  dot  it  over  with  specks  of  light. 

My  dream,  somehow,  must  have  played  me  false 

I  missed  my  path  in  my  life's  mad  waltz. 

Was  I  too  earthy  ?     Or  hopes  too  high  ? 

I  never  reached  where  the  jewels  lie. 

Or  were  my  eyes  so  dimmed  by  tears, 

I  missed  possession  all  these  years  ? 

No  matter  now;  the  hour  grows  late; 

Haste,  Death,  and  open  the  border  gate! 


Too  Late. 


H,  Time,  unloose  the  clasp  of  thy  painful  hand! 

Up  yonder  path  we  came  together. 
I  must  return  and  touch  my  childhood's  hand, 

And  say,  "  Farewell,  farewell,  forever!" 


Life's  Sor}g, 

4 

H  !  could  I  all  things  wrong  surrender, 

With  ardor  seek  celestial  splendor, 

My  love  for  Him  a  yearning  be, 

As  yearns  the  rill  for  the  mighty  sea, — 

Which  bears  upon  its  tuneful  tide 

Sweet  music  for  the  world  beside  ;  — 

If  life  bore  plans,  and  words,  and  deeds, 

Befitting  all  of  human  needs, 

Life's  current  set  to  sweetest  tunes, 

Kept  true  Decembers,  as  in  Junes, 

My  life — like  music  of  the  rills, 

Which  ocean's  depths  keeps  singing  still- 

A  song  immortal  then  would  be, 

A  river's  song  in  a  soundful  sea. 


October, 


QCTOBER  is  here, 
The  best  of  the  year, 

I  know  by  this  display. 
She  rifled  the  bow 
Of  beatific  glow 

To  deck  her  own  array  ; 
Bespangled  the  green, 
With  bright  leaves  between, 

Then  added  a  sprinkle  of  gray  ; 
Hung  a  bright  golden  sheen, 
With  the  apple  leaves  green, 

And  purple  along  the  vines'  way. 
O'er  the  brown,  tangled  weeds, 
And  the  beautiful  reeds, 

She  scattered  a  soft,  silvery  spray, 
Which  the  sunshine  bright 
Beglitters  with  light, 

Like  diamond  aurora. 
Even  painted  at  eve 
The  clouds  that  wreathe 

The  ramparts  of  retreating  day. 


26 


Trie  First  Frost  of 


NlOVEMBER,  fleeing,  frowned  in  anger, 

And  drew  her  drapery  tight. 
Chill  breezes  whispered  low,  in  languor, 

November's  last  good-night. 
The  frost  gleamed  white,  in  sheeny  splendor, 

On  flower,  leaf  and  tree  ; 
For  silvery  moonlight,  cool  and  tender, 

Walked  o'er  the  gem-lit  lea. 
Its  silvery  woof  with  frost  warp  mingles 

Its  weaving  left  and  right, — 
O'er  leafy  dells  and  drowzy  dingles 

Spreads  blankets  dazzling  white. 
The  North  King  sends  his  Arctic  tribute,— 

Boreas'  icy  car, 
Well  lade  with  jewels  for  December 

To  scatter  near  and  far. 


27 


Trie  Rivals. 


F 


ROM  out  October's  ruddy  car 

Stepped  stately,  cold  November, — 
A  princess  from  the  cold  North  star, 

With  a  retinue  of  splendor. 
December  scorned  the  icy  pride 

Of  the  haughty  Northern  princess. 
He  tallied  time  for  Christmas  tide, 

And  called  his  hoary  ministress. 
She  strode  Boreas'  steed  to  ride, 

And  lassoed  Arctic  splendor 

Of  ermine  clouds, — in  white  to  hide 

The  luster  of  November. 


Bringeth  All  Thipgs  |-lon?e. 


DIKE'S  evening  bringeth  us  all  to  our  home. 
kNo  sunset  shall  gild  that  heavenly  dome. 
The  fervor  of  sunrise  shall  be  its  adorning. 
'Twill  not  be  our  evening,  but  be  morning. 

28 


Farewell,  Darling 


T  DIKE'S  glamour  is  faded,  life's  hopes  rudely  broken  ; 

And  compelled,  at  the  last,  these  sad  words  have  been  spoken,— 

Farewell,  darling,  my  dearest! 

Ah!  little  we  thought  in  our  love's  sunny  May  time, 
When  we  thought  of  each  other,  by  night-time,  and  daytime, 
To  say,  ever  say,  Farewell,  darling,  my  dearest! 

How  could  we  have  thought,  when  so  happy  together, 

We,  compelled,  would  speak  words  that  would  ring  out  forever, — 

Farewell,  darling,  my  dearest! 

Can  my  heart  e'er  be  taught  that  it  faints  not,  or  calls  not  ? 
Can  my  hands  press  my  ears,  that  your  dear  accent  falls  not  ? 

That  calls,  ever  calls,  Farewell,  darling,  my  dearest? 

Will  your  words,  like  a  ghost-song,  forever  come  thither  ? 

Will  they  come,  on  each  breeze,  with  such  pleadings  that  quiver  ? 

Farewell,   darling,  my  dearest! 

When  our  love  is  consumed  on  love's  own  strange  built  altar, 
Then  our  hearts  will  they  cry  not,  or  lips  pale  not,  nor  falter 

To  say,  sadly  say,  Farewell,  darling,  my  dearest! 


29 


I  ween  darkened  halls  of  my  heart  will  be  guestless; 

Night  and  day  they  will  echo  than  the  sea  waves  more  restless, — 

Farewell,  darling,  my  dearest! 
It  is  said  that  each  bosom  some  sepulcher  closes, 
That  some  weed  will  grow  green  on  the  bed  of  dead  roses, 

But  naught  can  replace  my  lost  darling,  my  dearest! 

Perhaps  in  life's  flow  my  heart's  cry  shall  be  stifled, 
And  my  heart  cease  to  cry  out,  that  it  has  been  rifled. 

Farewell,  darling,  my  dearest. 

The  thorns  were  all  spared,  but  my  roses  were  taken, 
Hushed  each  song,  save  the  wind's  mocking  cry — love  forsaken ! 

And  cries,  ever  cries,  Farewell,   darling,  my  dearest! 

Though  I  olden  by  a  wild  laugh,  and  a  still  wilder  weeping, 
Though  I  mutter  again,  and  again,  when  I  am  sleeping, — 

Farewell,  darling,  my  dearest! 

Though  my  lips  may  grow  pale,  and  my  pale  brow  more  whitened, 
Though  my  mad  lips  may  whisper,  with  maddened  eyes  brightened, 

They  will  say,  Thou,  my  darling,  art  dearest! 

Pangs  of  anguish  once  borne,  the  green  grave  never  covers. 
Phantom  bells  will  forever  ring  the  knell  of  the  lovers. 
Farewell,  darling,  my  dearest! 


And  methinks  that  the  wild  winds,  in  fierce,  fitful  blowing, 
Though  sepulchral  vines  above  me  be  growing, 

Will  shriek,  wildly  shriek,  Farewell,  darling,  my  dearest ! 


Inconstancy, 


n^HB  morning's  golden  glories  meet 

The  mountain  tops  to  flatter, 
Then  kiss  the  flowers  at  their  feet. 

Was  morn  sincere  ?     No  matter! 
For  mountains  bade  the  clouds  to  ride 

Upon  their  ragged  pillows, 
Then  thrust  them  down,   in  wrath, — to  bide 

Among  the  sheltering  willows. 


Trie  Mountain  Stornq, 


n^HE  clouds  climbed  after  each  other  up  the  mountains  high, 
Then  strode  across  the  fenceless  desert  of  the  sky. 
The  raindrops  fell  like  scattered  grain  of  the  husbandman. 
The  mountain  torrents  shouted  the  gale,  then  onward  ran. 

The  lightning,  like  hissing  serpents'  tongues  of  flame, 
Scourged  the  huge  rocks,  that  thundered  downward,  rent  in  twain. 
The  writhing  pine  trees  palavered  to  the  angry  wind. 
The  bellowing  thunder  all  the  mountain  valleys  dinned. 

The  timid  moon,  with  cloudy  mantles  about  her  rolled, 
Was  safely  hidden  in  their  bedraggled  draperies'  fold. 
And  only  the  mountains  stood  mute,  and  knew  no  angry  thrill 
While  fiercely  raged  the  tempest,  they  stood  statelily   and  still 


After  Marty  Years 


[    MUSED  with  awe  where  mountain  gloom 
Filled  crannied  nook  and  rocky  coombe. 
Huge  rocks  like  monsters  of  the  holm 
Came  weirdly  out  the  gathering  gloam. 
Dark  shadows  peeped,  then  forward  crept, 
Like  drowsy  gnomes  who  long  had  slept. 
Then  one  by  one  the  stars  were  tipped 
With  sacred  fires  from  holy  crypt. 
Soft  breezes  crept  like  living  things, 
That  seemed  the  sound  of  rustling  wings. 

A  stream  dashed  madly  down  the  fell. 
All  cast  o'er  me  a  magic  spell. 
My  life,  spread  broad  in  fabric,  lay 
A  dismal,  dark  and  dingy  gray. 
And  this  was  to  my  hearing  brought : 
u  I  gave  good  woof,  but  this  you  wrought, — 
A  worthless  weft.      Your  warp  is  spent, 
Your  shuttles  empty,  spindles  bent." 


33 


Oh,  pity,  Father  !   then  I  cried  ; 

To  weave  this  pattern  sweet  I  tried. 

I  toiled,  and  toiled,  and  I  am  sure 

My  pattern  was  quite  spotless,  pure. 

This  rag  to  dark  oblivion  leave, 

And  bless  that  which  I  meant  to  weave. 

Your  gifts  were  all  of  silvery  thread, 
But  what  I  wove  seems  gray  instead. 
'Mid  dust  and  sand  for  years  I  spun, 
And  meant  to  weave  a  charming  one  ; 
But  earthy  strife,  which  soiled  my  hands, 
Has  tarnished  all  the  lovely  strands. 


Beailty, 


IF  thoughts  kept  pure  expanded  white, 

In  deeds  of  blossomed  beauty, 

No  misty  haze,  but  radiant  light, 

Would  mark  our  path  of  duty. 


34 


Subset  irj  t^e  Mountains 


T\  LL  flushed,  the  face  of  the  mountains  reach 

For  caresses  of  its  lover, 
And  pillows  its  head  on  the  sky's  fond  breast, 

As  he  ardently  bends  over. 
The  weary  day  shuts  the  outer  door, 

Draws  curtains  of  purply  billows. 
And  firefly  lamps,  a  blazing  score, 

Light  up  the  tangled  willows. 

The  moon  dives  deep  into  cloudy  seas, 

And  drowns  her  radiant  splendor. 
The  pine  trees  nod  to  the  hoyden  breeze, 

Which  kisses  them  so  tender. 
The  cricket  calls  to  its  dusky  mate. 

Stars  shrink  into  misty  caverns. 
The  frogs  carouse  both  early  and  late 

In  Nature's  wayside  taverns. 


35 


tylouptair/s    JVIidnight  Gloom 


steepest  cliffs  and  rocky  canons, 

What  dismal  shadows  fall. 
Each  tree's  dark  shade  appears  the  yawning 

Of  some  wide  cavern's  wall. 
Uncanny  rocks  seem  mountain  monsters 

Beside  broad  burrowed  halls. 
The  coyote's  howl  suggests  as  meaning 

A  ghoul's  or  goblin's  cry. 
The  pain-wrenched  pine  trees  shriek  and  quiver, 

As  mad  winds  trample  by. 
Few  stars  above  the  scene  are  scattered 

Like  owlets  in  the  sky. 
The  moon  seems,  even  too,  to  falter, 

'Where  breastworks  tower  high. 

II 

Anon  comes  strangest,  stillest  silence, 
As  if  all  Nature  knelt  ; 


And  angels  bowed  in  reverent  feeling, 

Such  awe  has  Nature  felt. 
While  o'er  the  scene  a  spell  seemed  stealing, 

As  if  genii  dwelt 
'Neath  rocks,  ravines  and  caverns'  ceiling, 

And  awful  silence  dealt, 
As  Influence  weird,  to  aid  revealing, 

Their  mystic  rites  respelt. 

Ill 

Anon,  the  sun,  in  sheeny  splendor, 

Bursts  from  his  nighty  tomb, 
With  benediction,  soft  and  tender, 

Disperses  all  the  gloom. 
Each  bud's  "Good  morning"  sweetly  uttered 

By  bursting  into  bloom. 
The  wakened  birds,  with  wings  a-fluttered, 

Sing  loud  from  rocky  coombe. 
All  Nature  smiles, — so  soon  forgot 

The  midnight's  wretched  doom. 


37 


I   love  thy  gloomy  ghoulish  shadows, 
Thy  summits  golden,  sunset's  meadows. 


I  Love  Tl^ee,  Mountains! 

* 

T   LOVE  thy  gloomy,  ghoulish  shadows, 
Thy  summits  golden,  sunset's  meadows, 
Thy  robe  of  clouds,  with  ruffly  trailing, 
Be-edged  about  with  fleecy  veiling. 
Thy  rocks  seem  altars,  trees  seem  steeples. 
Thy  canon  aisles  my  fancy  peoples 
With  trains  of  worshipers  ascending 
To  grasp  Jehovah's  hand  depending. 


T    CANNOT  think  of  those  little  hands 

As  part  of  the  dim  unknown, 
But  worse,  by  far,  of  the  satin  bands, 
They  wear  in  their  coffin  lone. 

For  many  years  have  those  waxen  hands 
In  their  satiny  bands  held  still. 

Must  sheaves  of  eons  bind  their  bands, 
Nor  yet  thy  touch  my  pulses  thrill  ? 


A  binding  of  billowy,  raggedy  spray. 

Like  the  ravely  edge  of  the  ocean's  mantle. 


Sar]  Diego 


sailed  north  from  Natividad, 
Till  his  caravel  furrowed  a  fallow  bay. 

A  sequestered  realm,  bare  and  solitaire, 
For  leagues  upon  leagues  to  the  inland  lay. 

Ouivera's  broad  plain,  or  Cibola  fair, 
Might  engraft  on  the  stem  of  Eastern  lands  ; 

But  San  Diego,  apart  like  a  wild  beast's  lair, 
Was  hermitical  land.     There  a  hermit  city  stands,— 

A  hermit  secure  in  a  crescent  fastness. 
On  the  west  bends  the  hem  of  a  quiet  bay; 

On  the  east  rises  high,  hilly  vastness, 
Where  solitude  cradles  in  mountain  gloom 

The  unsingable  song  of  an  austere  silence. 
Far  away  the  Pacific's  wide  waters  boom 

A  retort  to  the  tempest's  rude  violence. 
A  binding  of  billowy,  raggedy  spray, 

Like  the  ravely  edge  of  the  ocean's  mantle, 
Whips  the  sands  in  the  glee  of  a  childish  play, 

Where  the  waves  on  the  westerly  thresholds  trample. 


39 


Round  the  bare  mountain  breasts  of  the  Eastern  rim, 
Blushing  cloudlets  the  folds  of  their  curtains  double. 

Down  the  swift  sloping  curves  of  the  mountainous  brim 
Gleams  the  rich  golden  fields  of  sunset's  stubble. 

When  the  Yule-tiding  falls,  then  Boreas  stops 

To  peep  o'er  the  easterly  border, 
His  frost  fingers  clutching  the  bare  mountain  tops, 

While  he  scowls  at  our  lowland  warder. 
For  she,  merry  Summer,  forever  abides, 

Idly  dreaming  in  a  sea-breezy  hammock; 
Her  empire  a  bower  where  side  by  side 

Grows  the  thistle,  the  rose  and  the  shamrock. 


40 


Good-iyigt]t 
* 

Life's  evening  falls. 

I  know  I  feel  the  twilight's  fingers  steal  in  mine, 
And  lead  me  with  a  gentle  hand 
Into  the  night, — where  nightly  shadows  twine 
Round  life's  shattered  wrecks  upon  the  strand. 

Oh,  silent  night  ! 

Embroidered  stars  upon  thy  silky  darkness  rest, — 
The  beacon  lights  of  faith's  own  hand, — 
To  light  the  fleecing  billows  crest, 
Which  bears  me  to  the  Silent  Land. 

Oh,  silent  path  ! 

That  stretches  far  into  the  night,  where  pillowed  rest 
Awaits  earth's  weary  ones,  whose  sleep 
The  Stygian's  roar  cannot  arrest, 
Though  launched  upon  its  billowy  deep. 

Oh,  peace,   be  still  ! 

He  speaks,  and  slumber  falls  upon  the  letheed  deep. 
We  calmly  rest  on  the  boatman's  breast ; 
For  Death,  our  life's  last  guest,  his  tryst  shall  keep, 
And  smile  upon  our  heaven -born  rest. 


LaK;e  Ontario 


OW  often,  when  the  night  hours  linger, 

I  listen  for  thy  surging  sea  ! 
Forgot,  that  lullaby  song  must  be 

Strings  struck  by  memory's  finger. 
Then  ring  out  cadence  of  those  billows, 

And  bear  the  long-hushed  strains  along  ; 
For  naught  could  soothe  my  wakeful  pillows 

Like  the  dear  old  cradle  song. 

I  sometimes  thought  thy  dark-blue  waves 

Were  but  the  sky's  robe  trailing, 
With  broidered  hem  of  crested  waves, 

And  foam-sprayed,  misty  veiling, 
Swung  back  and  fore,  o'er  a  glassy  floor, 

Like  graceful  dancings  to-and-fros; 
But  the  trodden  measures  of  tJiat  shore 

Are  dear  Ontario's. 


42 


My  Dreanq, 

* 

T    DREAMED  by  a  lake  far  away  I  reclined, 

In  a  bower  of  myrtle  where  the  wild  roses  twined. 
Like  meteors  the  hours  were  hurrying  by; 
The  fires  of  youth  burned  again  in  my  eye. 
Again,  by  the  power  of  fantasies  led, 
I  built  airy  castles  where  my  future  should  tread. 
Youth  tinged  all  that  future  with  roseate  glow, 
And  life  had  a  zest  but  the  youthful  can  know. 
My  memory  to  ashes  had  fallen  away, 
Forgotten  life's  sorrows,  its  cares,  and  its  fray. 

I  shuddered  to  see,  in  the  valley  below, 
My  old  forms  of  sorrow,  and  anguish,  and  woe, 
My  face  pinched  with  pain,  my  pining  regret, — 
Nor  knew  they  were  mine.     I  wept  now  to  see 
What  trials  for  mortals  on  earth  there  could  be. 
I  shrank  from  the  scene,  so  sickening  and  sad, 
Giving  thanks  that  for  me  no  such  fate  could  be  had 


43 


I  woke.     Youth  had  fled  :  again  I  was  old  ; 
Youthful  ardor  had  vanished  ;  the  world  again  cold  ; 
Old  memories  revived  ;  I  could  not  forget. 
That  vision  of  dreamland  in  my  heart  lingers  yet. 

Hades, 
* 

^\A/HERE  are  my  hours  of  anguish  ? 

And  where  those  nights  of  tears  ? 
I  know  they  rest  and  languish 

Among  the  sleeping  years  ; 
But  anguish  knows  no  sleeping, 

A  living  presence,  he. 
The  pain  that  caused  my  weeping 

Will  know  eternity. 
There  anguish  all  unspoken 

Will  echo  through  the  hours. 
Remorse  of  one,  heartbroken, 

Will  smite  his  heaven's  flowers. 


44 


Nature's  At-or)e-nqer}t 

* 

,  Thou  Eternal  Soul ! 
Thou  gav'st  me  to  know 
The  secret  in  the  blade  of  grass, 
And  in  the  little  flower  :  — 
That  they  are  one  with  Thee,  and  I  with  them. 
And,  knowing,  feel  the  throbs  in  the  pulsing  tide 
Of  the  secret  of  the  universe. 


The  garrulous  ocean  knows,  and  babbling  tells  it  well, 
But  better  in  its  undertone, 

When  the  tempest  tortures  to  wrath  the  seething  waves  ; 
Then  louder  the  trembling  secret  swells, 
And  the  eager  listener  falls  upon  his  knees, 
Deluged  by  a  fervid  torrent,  which  he  knows 
Is  the  pulsing  current  strong- 
Flowing  throughout  all  Nature's  unity. 


45 


0 


Yoiitrv 

* 
O,  youth  !  I  know  you  may  not  linger 

Along  the  pathway  I  must  go. 
Yes,  go  !  You  take  my  precious  jewels 

But  whither  !  Who  can  know  ! 

I  must  sail  on,  and  on,  alway, 

Upon  life's  stormy  main. 
You  backward  sail,  like  yesterday. 

I  ne'er  sail  back  again. 

And  you  will  be  as  ship  that  passed 
And  vanished  in  the  night; 

But  memory  long  thy  wake  will  cast 
Its  phosphorescent  light. 

Then  shall  we  never  meet  again  ? 

Forgotten  mine  and  me  ? 
Ah  !  Thou  art  mine,  and  such  remain, 

Through  all  eternity  ! 


46 


In  mighty  vastness  of  the  yonder 

Shall  we  united  be  ? 
Or  will  each  seek  u  his  own,"  I  wonder, 

And  seek  eternally  ? 


Nigrjt. 


press  their  lips  to  the  crimson  cheek  of  the  western  sky 
The  twilight  twines  her  tresses  with  locks  of  ebon  dye. 
The  soft  breeze  sobs  and  whispers  with  melancholy  sound. 
The  night  has  stars  for  the  sky,  but  gloom  for  the  dewy  ground. 


Dawrv 


tops  of  the  mountains  are  held  to  the  dawn's  pink  lips. 
Day  pins  to  the  sky  her  canopy  folds  of  light. 

Through  the  coral  and  lace  of  the  peppers  a  golden  sunbeam  drips. 
And  clouds  heavily  lean  'gainst  the  shut  gates  of  night. 


47 


Tinqe's  Tillage  of  trie  Heart. 


n^IME  has  shorn  my  heart's  garden  as  barren  of  leaves 

As  a  meadow  is  after  the  mowing. 
I  confide  all  my  sighs  to  the  care  of  the  breeze 
Which  over  the  stubble  is  blowing. 

II 
Time  now  turns  in  my  heart  furrows  long  and  so  deep, 

And  subsoils  the  fresh  bleeding  trenches, 
Unheeding  my  cries,  or  the  tears  which  I  weep. 

Has  pity  grown  cold  in  the  heart  of  his  henches? 

Why  harrow  my  torn  heart  again  and  again  ? 

And  tread  it  with  feet  roughly  shodden  ? 
Oh  !   Feel  you  no  anguish,  or  throes  of  my  pain  ? 

Or  my  quivering,  each  step  you  have  trodden  ? 

Ill 

My  heart's  fallow  is  broken.      Time's  plowing  is  done. 
His  henches  are  all  idly  waiting 

48 


What  seed  I  shall  scatter,  or  if  there  be  none. 
And  all  to  the  briars  and  brambles  forsaking. 

Shall  my  sowing  be  tares  ?     Oh,  my  cost  was  too  great  ! 

Then  shall  there  be  thistles  a-growing  ? 
Or  shall  I  have  weeds  ?     They  bloom  early  and  late. 

No  !     The  harvest  will  liken  the  sowing. 

Would  the  wayfarer  smile  at  my  garden  of  leaves, 
Though  no  leaves  were  kept  brighter  or  greener  ; — 

As  he  will,  if  my  harvest  has  low  bending  sheaves, 
With  the  scattering  ears  for  the  gleaner  ? 

Oh,  why  will  we  moan,  when  the  husbandman  Time 
Tills  our  heart,  that  the  seed  we  may  scatter  ! 

When  he  harrows  our  heart,  we  need  not  repine, 
Neither  call  his  heart  tillage  disaster. 


AA/ 


Fancied    Bondage. 
* 

HY,  through  the  live-long  night,   oh,  sea  ! 

Thy  moaning  murmurs  fill  the  air  ? 
Thou  art  not  fettered!     Thou  art  free! 

And  free  winds  toss  thy  hoary  hair. 

Ah,  me  !     And  it  is  thus  through  life  : 
We  pace  like  caged  gazelle,  — 

Pace  back  and  fore,  in  madd'ning  strife. 
If  tethered,  we  cannot  tell. 

Will  restless  souls  on  the  other  shore 
Resume  their  weary  march  again, 

As  if  their  bonds  were  taut  and  sore, 
And  freedom  theirs  to  gain? 


n^IS  night,  and  the  sky's  bending  meadow  blazes 
With  stars  strewing  over  like  ox-eye  daisies. 
The  clouds'  woven  haze  seems  like  heavenly  highlands, 
Or  borders  of  palms  on  far  distant  islands. 


50 


Trjy  Will  Be  Dorie. 


CROSS  the  sky  a  veil  is  stretched,  and  voices  cry, 
If  I  must  sink  in  death,  I  must  know  why  ! 
And  not  a  word  upon  the  mystic  veil  is  writ, 
And  nothing  on  the  green  earth  under  it. 

But  unseen  ringers  turn  unseen  leaves  for  me; 

I  read  a  page  I  cannot  even  see. 

A  message  hovers  near,  and  yet  no  sound  I  hear; 

Its  touch  is  like  my  shadow  hovering  near. 

I  neither  see,  nor  hear,  nor  know; — yet  sure  am  I 

Death  is  our  Father's  g\ ft.      So  let  me  die! 

It  is  His  light,  that  comes  from  far-off  heights  to  me, 
Which  penetrates  the  distant  veil  I  see, 
And  falls  in  unseen  mists  of  sanctifying  rain, 
And  tells  me  o'er  and  o'er,  to  die  is  gain. 


My  Own  Sriall  Cor^e  to  Me, 


Q  LJv  other  gifts  shall  come 

Clustering  to  love  and  purity. 
If  prayer  of  lips  be  dumb, 

Prayer  in  the  heart  is  security. 

No  one  can  lift  from  me 

Unalterable  fate's  fraternity  : 

My  own  shall  come  to  me, 

And  bide  through  all  eternity. 

Each  dewdrop  knows  its  own, 
Cherishing  its  nightly  destiny, 

As  Autumn  sheaves  what  seed  was  sown, 
Or  bees  the  flowers'  expectancy. 


I   Warjt  to   Kr}ow>. 


JTJ  RE  clouds  the  cast-off  robes  of  the  storm  ? 

Is  day  the  child  of  the  sun  ? 

Is  night  a  kin  to  the  evening-  star? 

And  the  moon  a  bastard  one  ? 

Are  seas  the  tides  the  Infinite  weared 

Where  the  sunset  laves  its  light  ? 
Are  mountains  hands  which  the  earth  has  reared 

In  prayer  all  these  days  and  nights  ? 

Is  snow  spray-drift  from  the  airy  tide, 

And  earth  its  ocean  strand  ? 
Is  moonlight's  sheen  aerial  veils 

Cast  o'er  the  dreaming  land  ? 

Is  noontime's  flush  the  purpling  showers 

O'er  the  sunset's  bosom  strown  ? 
Is  June's  perfume  the  souls  of  the  flowers 

As  each  one  seeks  its  own  ? 


53 


Is  Nature  Depraved? 

1°\OES  the  little  world  of  the  lily  keep 

A  record  of  the  flowers 
It  so  proudly  laid  at  the  Summer's  feet, 
The  sultry  Summer  hours  ? 

Does  the  violet  hide,  by  its  little  heart, 

A  lease  upon  the  snow  ? 
Or  the  roses  teach  ev'ry  thorn  its  smart, 

And  tell  them  where  to  grow  ? 

Does  the  breeze  from  the  laugh  of  the  ocean  write 

Those  billows'  cursed  notes, 
That  the  angry  wind,  some  tempestuous  night, 

May  wreck  the  sailors'  boats  ? 


Eachj   Wafts   Its 

* 

n^HE  flow' ret  waits  the  coming  bee  ; 

The  shore  the  waves  caress. 
Then  wait,  your  own  shall  come  and  be 
A  curse  or  blessedness. 


54 


Delayed    Spring 


''"PIS  May  ;  but  the  peaks  of  the  mountains  are  pale, 
And  torn  by  the  wrath  of  a  recent  gale. 
In  pity  for  the  rended  and  storm-trampled  vale, 

They  plead  for  the  spring-loving  lilies. 
With  cheek  to  the  cheek  of  the  wintry  storm, 
They  tell  of  their  hopes  for  the  babies  unborn, 

The  dear  little  daffy-down-dillies. 


One  more  of  Boreas'  storm-loving  kin, 

In  his  icy  sepulcher  is  gathered  in, 

And  one  more  winter  is  the  what-has-been  : 

And  flowers  in  the  valleys  are  growing. 
The  peaks  of  the  mountains  keep  watch  in  the  sky, 
Lay  their  cheeks  to  the  cheeks  of  the  clouds  passing  by  ; 

What  they  say  but  the  raindrops  are  knowing. 


55 


My  Little 


photo  of  my  inner  life 

(Not  wholly,  but  in  part),  — 
Go,  little  book,  in  love,  not  strife, 

Nor  master  poet's  art. 
Go  !     Seek  the  friends,  whose  love  invites 

Thy  touch,  from  heart  to  heart. 

Perhaps  some  little,  little  rhyme, 
Some  hearth  may  linger  nigh, 

And  some  old  friend,  at  evening  time, 
May  read,  with  failing  eye,  — 

And  hear,  like  half-  forgotten  chime, 
A  voice  he  knows  is  I. 


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